Baskerville After Dark
by Ttime42
Summary: John and Sherlock have to share a bed at Baskerville. PG-13. Gen, but can be preslash. Rated for swearing. Spoilers for Hounds of Baskerville!


"Here you go, one single. You're in room 4." The innkeeper, Gary, handed John a metal key with a little wooden key ring with _The Cross Keys_ carved into one side. The other side bore a number four beside a pawprint. Cute.

"It's not a double room?" John asked, taking the key slowly. "I booked two doubles."

Gary checked his book, flipping through the pages. "No…I have you down here for the one room. One double bed."

John licked his lips. "Is there a room available with two beds?"

More pages in the book were consulted. "Sorry, no." He sounded apologetic.

John glanced up at Sherlock, who was prowling around the lobby, looking at everything and everyone and ignoring John.

"Are there any more single rooms? John asked.

"No, that's the only room left. Sorry, mate."

John sighed quietly. Share a bed with Sherlock in the double and be done with it, or argue and bitch about who got the bed and who got the floor? John had a feeling Sherlock would end up winning that argument. He'd probably do something completely disgusting to the bed to claim it, something disgusting involving decaying body parts. Granted, there was always the car to sleep in, but that just seemed silly.

"Okay." John pocketed the key. Sharing a home was one thing. The kitchen with all the experiments, the sitting room with all the papers. Hell, if John could share a toilet and shower with the man, surely a bed for a few nights wouldn't be bad. He'd slept in worse conditions in the desert. Compared to a sandy ditch with his platoon, a soft bed with his flatmate was nothing. Right?

* * *

John and Sherlock pushed into the room they'd be calling home until the case was solved. They dropped their bags at the foot of the double bed. John froze. Sitting on the bed on a silver tray were two chocolates and a little card that read 'enjoy your stay' in flowery script. That in itself was hardly offensive, but the two red roses in the glass heart-shaped vase next to the card certainly were.

"Fucking hell." John picked up the folded card and opened it. 'Hope the room suits. Have fun,' it read. John rolled his eyes and threw it down on the tray. They may have well just included condoms and lube and called it a honeymoon suite. Sherlock had placed his suitcase on the only luggage rack in the room and was rifling through it, fully ignoring the card and roses. He swept past John en route to the loo.

"Do you see this?" John gestured to the tray.

"Honestly, John. Stop caring." The door closed and John moved the tray to the desk in the corner. He wasn't so offended that he didn't take one of the chocolates before turning on the news.

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom and grabbed his coat.

"Hey, Sherlock, I hope you don't mind…they only had the one room…"

"Fine, whatever." Sherlock pulled his coat around his shoulders. "I might not sleep. Depends on how long this case takes. Come. Let's go to the lab."

That was something, John supposed. He'd forgotten about flatmate's propensity for insomnia. John stood up and turned off the news. "The lab? Can the public just wander into a government facility?"

Sherlock swept out the door, raising a brow at John.

"I'm not the public." Sherlock said easily. John locked the room and they left the inn.

_10 pm that night_

"Liberty, IN…Liberty, IN…." Sherlock threw the room door open and paced inside, his fingers steepled as he wondered aloud about the information Henry had told them earlier. John trudged in after, still harboring mixed feelings for Doctor Frankland. Yes, the man had gotten them out of a tight spot at the facility (honestly, Mycroft's ID? Sherlock was probably the only person on the planet who could impersonate Mycroft and live to tell the tale) but then he'd blown John's cover when he was talking to Henry's therapist.

Sherlock seemed satisfied, if not a little freaked out from the hollow, and John was looking forward to getting to bed soon. He closed and locked the door behind, then turned to face the room and abruptly swore aloud. Candles. A pair of lit fucking candles were on the table in the corner, along with a small room service dessert menu. John grabbed it and blew out the candles. "Chocolate covered strawberries?" He growled. "Oysters?!" John flung the card down, looking to the heavens for support.

"Quiet!" Sherlock hissed.

"Candles-strawberries." John gestured to the card. It was obvious Sherlock wasn't paying attention to him. He had the far-away look of thought.

John grabbed a few things from his bag and went to the loo. He was going to shower and sleep and focus on the case, not meddling innkeepers.

_2 am_

"Ow!" John woke up as Sherlock clambered into the bed, elbowing him in the shoulder. The blankets were lifted, a blast of cold air chilled John's bare arm. "Ah-Sherlock!" He grunted. "I thought you were staying up?"

"No point. I have a theory, but until I can test it, there's no reason to stay up."

"Shame." John muttered. He rolled over-away from Sherlock, and went still. Everything was quiet for a few moments before the blankets were unceremoniously ripped off his body. "Hey!" John sat up, noticing Sherlock cocooned in the wad of blankets and looking very comfortable.

"Warm?" John asked, his voice full of fake sweetness.

"Mmhm." Sherlock mumbled.

"Too bad." John grabbed the sheets back and pulled them over himself.

"John!" Sherlock hollered.

"You still have plenty!" John lay back down, clenching his fingers around the edge of the quilt to keep in place. Sherlock huffed out a long irritated breath beside him.

"Go to sleep, drama queen."

Surprisingly, Sherlock didn't comment, and they fell asleep in relative comfort.

_3:15 am_

John opened his eyes, staring at the angry red numbers on the clock beside the bed. A deep, heavy rumbling was permeating the room, making the air vibrate. John's initial guess would have been that a garbage truck was fighting an elephant outside, but that couldn't possibly be the case. There were no wild elephants in England's moors. He then realized that the horrible sounds weren't coming from outside, but from next to him. John growled aloud, clamping the pillow over his ears. Sherlock _was _a snorer. He lay there in the dark for a few moments, watching the moonlight bars on the wall and listening to the motorboat mating with a lawn mower beside him.

"Dammit, Sherlock." He said it out loud, knowing that it wouldn't make a difference, and to add insult to injury, the blankets were gone again, wrapped entirely around Sherlock's body. John grabbed a cotton corner and tugged, both not wanting to wake Sherlock but also really hoping he did. The roaring corpse that was once his genius detective flatmate flopped over a little as John loosened the blanket. He managed to wriggle it away from Sherlock enough so the he had a couple feet to drape over his chest. He put the pillow over his face in the hopes that he could get at least _some _sleep tonight.

Morning dawned far too soon and John was awoken by the hellish blast of Sherlock's phone alarm at half past the arse crack of dawn. Well, it wasn't that early, but on only three hours' sleep for the entire night, it sure felt early. John lay still, the pull of sleep heavy around his eyes, feeling mutinous as Sherlock rolled out of bed and went to the loo. John hoped there _was_ a giant rabid dog out there-and he hoped it liked to eat lanky snoring bastards who hogged the blankets.

"John." Sherlock emerged from the toilet. HIs voice was thick and groggy. "S'there coffee?"

"Make your own fecking coffee." John snapped. Sherlock dropped the coffee questions.

"Are you getting up?" He asked, grabbing clothes from his suitcase.

"I'll get up when I'm bloody ready. Now be quiet."

Sherlock frowned. It wasn't like John to be so tetchy.

_11:30 pm that night_

John stomped back into the room, nearly slamming the door on Sherlock's face. He was glad there weren't any more chocolate or roses laying around. They'd be flying out the window if there were.

"I don't know what you're so upset about‒I solved the case!"

"You don't' know?!" John whirled and fixed his 'Captain Watson' glare on the detective. He was pleased to see Sherlock gulp in fear. "You poisoned my coffee, you git! The sugar?!_ Really_? I'd half a mind to take Lestrade's gun and shoot you in the foot!"

"I had to eliminate all the possib-"

John waved him away and angrily got ready for bed.

Sherlock didn't say anything more until they were both settled and comfortable. John let out a long sigh of contentment. The bed felt good, even if he wouldn't be able to be asleep in it for long.

"I…understand how the sugar could have made you upset." Sherlock said.

"Proper genius you are."

"But like I said, I needed to eliminate all possibilities. After the lab, I knew it couldn't possibly be the sugar. Do you see? It helped."

Some of John's anger melted away, aided by the finished case and the soft bed.

"Fine. Yes. I see."

"Good."

John rolled over with a generous handful of blankets. "Gary was right about you."

"What? What do you mean? Who's Gary?"

"You are a snorer." John closed his eyes and grinned, almost able to hear Sherlock opening and closing his mouth, searching for a retort.

"I am not." He managed.

"Yes you are." John countered. "And if your snoring wakes me up tonight, you're sleeping in the car."

_4 am_

John was pulled out of a restful sleep by drip of sweat running down his forehead. Taking a breath, he went to throw off the covers when-"Mmph"

John froze. Two arms were wrapped around his torso. Two long, pasty arms. A familiar long-fingered hand was resting on the mattress in front of him. Sherlock. Apparently when he wasn't snoring, he cuddled. John grimaced. It was _hot_ like this. Too hot. Two warm bodies plus a pile of blankets; John wasn't sure which was worse-going deaf or getting sweated out. He flung the sheets away.

"Sherlock." He hissed.

"Mmm."

"You're…you're _hugging _me."

"Go sleep, Jn…." Sherlock murmured. John rolled his eyes and quietly tried to extract himself from the loose grip…Sherlock's arms tightened like iron bands, yanking John back against his chest. John thought of fighting it and then just gave up. It wasn't too hot now that the blankets were off and though he didn't particularly fancy getting cuddled by another bloke, it was only Sherlock. And honestly, seeing this human side of him was absolutely adorable. Sherlock would certainly not remember anything in the morning and deny it had ever happened, so for now, John relaxed. The case was solved and they were going home in a few hours.

End.


End file.
